Five Ways the Yard 'Meet' Bond
by phantom-lass
Summary: These one-shots are set in my Fem-Sherlock universe. And in that universe James Bond was partnered with Sherlock to take down Moriarty's gang. Now she is back. But how will the Yarders find out about Bond? Well, in one of five ways ;) GIRL Sherlock. (my fem!Sherlock was born from reading Sherlock Holmes, Mary Russell and Flavia de Luce too close to each other)
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own Sherlock or James Bond. :)**

**All of these chapters come from a bunch of stories I posted on a tumblr griffinquillsandoctopusink dot tumblr dot com.**

**These one-shots are set in my Fem-Sherlock universe. And in that universe James Bond was partnered with Sherlock to take down Moriarty's gang. Now she is back. But how will the Yarders find out about Bond? Well, in one of five ways ;)**

**The Bust is Busted**

"Oh, this is…unexpected," Sherlock deadpanned when she entered 221B Baker Street to find a man pointing two hand guns – one being a Walther PPK/S, if she wasn't mistaken and knowing the man's preference - at her obviously uninvited guests who had more than likely been interrupted in the middle of a 'drugs bust'. She had to admit though that the look on Donovan's face was worth having her privacy violated once again. As for Lestrade, well, she did feel a little bit sorry for him. Only a little.

Yes. She could definitely see the humour in this situation. John would be proud.

"Sherlock, are Greg and-" John stopped talking when his foot hit the top step and she could guess that he was going for his own gun when the man shook his head.

"I really wouldn't do that mate," he tutted.

"Who the hell are you?" John demanded and she could feel his hand close around her wrist, no doubt to push her to safety should things turn violent. Idiot.

The blonde man cocked his head slightly, his aim never wavering from the two officers and his blue eyes flashing.

There was no reply and they stood in a strained silence.

Sherlock had finally had enough. Secretly she wouldn't have minded stringing Sally along for a little bit longer but it was getting a little boring.

"For crying out loud Bond, put down the gun," she snapped, shaking her arm free from John's clutching grip and heading to the kitchen. She had a very time delicate experiment currently sitting on the kitchen table, "Anyone you point those things at tend to die and I would appreciate you not killing two law enforcement officers in my living room," she threw over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Lestrade with his mouth wide open and Sally glaring at her.

She could just imagine what they were thinking.

John would be thinking something along the lines of 'what has she got herself into now'. Lestrade - 'why is she so calm'. Sally - 'I knew she was crazy and this just proves it'.

Or variations thereof.

"It seemed to be a prudent course of action at the time, love," one James Bond informed her.

"Oh I bet it was," she spoke to the table as she bent over her microscope and looked into the lens.

She sighed heavily.

Wasted.

She turned back to the drama playing out in her living room.

She was glad to see that Bond had at least lowered his weapons and holstered one while he 'played' with the other. John was still standing in the door while Lestrade and Sally still sat in silence on the couch, their eyes never leaving the armed man.

She leaned against the wall, facing into the room, and folded her arms across her chest.

"So, Bond, still banging for Britain?"


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own Sherlock or James Bond :)**

**Bond Makes a Crime Scene**

Sherlock had been summoned to a crime scene in a warehouse where to all appearances – according to Lestrade – there had been a 'shoot out of John Wayne proportions' whatever that meant. But he promised her weird so she duly arrived.

She wasn't surprised to see that John was already there. Lestrade had no doubt contacted John before he did her just so that he would be there for her arrival. She resented the idea that they seemed to view John as her 'handler' like she was a bomb dog who was brought out of the van attached to a leash when needed and then put back in her cage once done with.

She examined the scene.

And with one glance around the huge open space building she had her suspicions as to who was responsible – after all, she had seen something similar to this before - and schooled her expression to disinterest.

Bodies littered the abandoned building and she had seen several lying in the alley down the side before she had entered. It was near a busy road so she wasn't surprised that no one had heard the shots. It hadn't been until a man bleeding from several places had staggered into that busy road that anything had been reported.

The smell of stale building filled her nose and the coppery scent of blood. There was enough of it lying around in puddles surrounding the bodies.

She bent over the bodies with no holes and found purple bruising on the necks. Strangled then. Affective, if time consuming. Someone cleared their throat and she looked up from the body she was inspecting – this one with a broken neck – she looked at the officer and he pointed up. She glanced in the direction he indicated.

"Fascinating," she mumbled.

Hanging from a long piece of wire was a man. It seemed that the lighting cord had been dragged from the socket and wrapped about his neck. Ingenious really.

She stood and walked from the building and went straight to Lestrade and John who were speaking in hushed voices to the side of the door. She planted the most bored expression she could manage on her face.

She never had the chance to open up her moth when a black car pulled up into the sea of police cars and a blonde man with chiselled features climbed from the front seat.

His presence caught Sherlock's attention as well as eyes of quite a few of the officers.

The man swaggered forward with the air of someone who knew his worth and stopped in front of Lestrade and handed him an envelope.

A few moments later Lestrade's phone rang.

He picked it up and a barrage of 'yes sir', 'off course sir's fell from his lips. Sherlock knew what had just happened and she knew that Lestrade would be foaming at the mouth if the man wasn't still standing there.

"I will have a word with Miss Holmes," the man announced

"Indeed," she quirked an eyebrow at him, eyeing him up and down.

She saw the scuffs on his shoes and the state of his suit that had obviously seen better days.

Lestrade tensed at the idea of letting Sherlock be alone with this man who had just shown up to basically tell him that this case was so far above his clearance trying to get to it would give him a nosebleed at the very least. He may be wearing a nice suit but Greg had been around criminals long enough to know a dangerous man when he saw one. And his instinct was telling him this was not a man to mess with.

The man walked off to the car with Sherlock who surprisingly enough went along willingly.

"Who's that?" John piped up from beside him and his answer was just to shake his head and ordered Donovan to pack up.

"The case is out of our hands," he told John once Donovan had her orders.

John just nodded in an 'oh, right' kind of way and they both went back to watching Sherlock and the stranger.

Something seemed off.

The stranger was standing a foot or two away from Sherlock but leaning forward.

Everything said that he wanted to be closer to her.

Did they know each other?

How could they?

The man's hand reached out like he wanted to touch her. The hand dropped when it was an inch or so away from her. Sherlock who had been tracing the progress of the hand looked up at him with a thoughtful smile and a little frown creasing her forehead.

Do they know each other?

Sherlock had never mentioned anyone to him. But they never really had talked about what she had gotten up to during her absence from their lives. He knew John was still angry about it and that was why she didn't bring it up much.

He watched as Sherlock walked away from the man who was looking after her with an expression of longing. Longing?

"Who was that?" John asked like he didn't care but he was glowering at the man.

Sherlock was right. John was a rubbish liar.

"Old friend," she replied shortly.

"And now that you no longer need me I'll be off,"

Was that why Sherlock had seemed so uninterested? Had she known who was responsible for the massacre in and around the warehouse?

Lestrade was not as dim as Sherlock liked to believe and he had noticed the tear in the man's trousers, the slight cuts on his face and the way he held himself - broken rib maybe?

Lestrade thought he knew who was responsible.

And he wanted to know how Sherlock knew a man who could take out nearly a dozen men with only sore ribs to show for it.


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own Sherlock or James Bond :)**

**A Stranger Over Her Bed**

John sat by the hospital bed, the constant beeping of the various monitors the only noise in the room.

It seemed so wrong to see Sherlock being so still and quiet. She was always filled with such energy, always moving, twitching, watching.

But not now. Thanks to a suspect's bullet she was in a hospital bed, harsh white hospital issue bedding covering her, making her seem so small and pale.

It was all wrong.

John didn't even blink away from her face when Lestrade entered the room.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The steady noise remained the only constant.

"Have you been here the whole time?"

John nods his head.

Sherlock was not supposed to get hurt.

"Have you slept?"

He shook his head.

This was all wrong.

"Had anything to eat?"

"No," he mumbled.

She was breathing fine and the doctor in him knew that she could wake up any moment. She had come through the surgery without a hitch. The bullet had been a through and through. By some miracle it had gone through above her hip and missed her organs. Seeing the amount of blood flowing from her and terrified him.

He remember what one of the doctors had asked him after the surgery.

Why hadn't he informed them of a previous bullet wound?

Because he hadn't known she had been bloody shot in the past that was why.

"-coffee?"

What?

"Come on mate, we'll get to the cafeteria for something to eat and drink. We won't be gone long,"

He tried to protest but Lestrade's argument that he wouldn't do her much good if he passed out from exhaustion and lack of food had him moving.

They sat in the silent cafeteria with only the occasion doctor coming in to use the vending machines. John was nursing a cup of vending machine coffee and a packet of crisps. Hardly a meal but there was a few hours to wait until things would be up and going for the breakfast crowd.

"You know," Greg cleared his throat, "I didn't actually know if she slept or not. I thought that Anderson could have been right,"

John looked up from the steaming plastic cup to frown at Greg. Anyone who thought that Anderson could be right about anything concerning Sherlock needed help.

"He has a theory that she is a vampire. One of those glittery ones, you know,"

John couldn't stop the chuckle that burst from him at this.

"Yeah, good theory I suppose," he whispered hoarsely, gulping down what was left of his coffee and crunching through his crisps in record timing.

They walked back to the room in silence and stopped when they reached the length of corridor that gave a view of Sherlock's room door and the window that ran the length of her bed.

There was a man in the room with her. His lack of lab coat told John that he wasn't a doctor.

He ran for the room, Lestrade at his heal, ready to do anything to the man if he was here to hurt Sherlock. Could he have hurt her already? If he had Lestrade would have to be pretty quick off the mark to stop John from killing the stranger.

Wait.

John skidded to a stop when he saw the stranger sit in the seat he himself had been in no that long ago and take Sherlock's hand. She was awake.

And was that a sleepy smile on her face?

John shifted nearer the wall and out of the line of sight of Sherlock or the man if either of them decided to look out of the window. Greg followed his example.

There was definitely a fleeting smile ghosting across her pale lips and when he held his breath he could pick up the deep voice of the stranger.

He watched in shock.

"Who's that?" Greg whispered from beside him.

John shrugged.

"Sherlock doesn't know anyone but us. Does she?"

John's usual answer would be no. Sherlock was not close to anyone that he didn't know.

But obviously she was.

After some minutes they watched as the stranger stood and then a whole new level of shock came over John as he watched the stranger bend over the bed and press a long kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

The stranger pressed his nose to Sherlock's in one of the most intimate acts John had ever witnessed in relation to the Consulting Detective and then left the room.

There was no hiding from his now and he nodded at them as he walked past.

This man shouted danger in every movement and John wanted to know what he had been doing in Sherlock's room, talking to Sherlock, kissing Sherlock.

They walked in to the room, all but tripping over their own feet to get through the door.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John dashed to the bed.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, looking dark and sunken in her pale face and she frowned.

"I have been shot John, I am as well as can be expected," she informed him croakily, her voice tired and strained.

"Just who the bloody hell was that Sherlock?" John demanded.

Sherlock closed her eyes and breathed steadily.

"Just James,"

A few seconds later she was asleep.

John exchanged a confused look with Greg who had stood at the other side of the bed.

"James?"


	4. Postcards and Snap-Shots

**I do not own Sherlock or James Bond**

**Postcards and Snap-Shots**

Sherlock had started getting postcards. John had started to notice the increase in mail coming to 221B Baker Street some months ago. It wasn't all that difficult - even for him – to notice as Sherlock got next to no mail. Preferring to do most things electronically.

He didn't pay it much attention at first.

But then he noticed the same handwriting on the envelopes.

When the eleventh envelope arrived with a slight tear near the top he couldn't resist having a look to see if he could make something out. Nothing. But he did know the feel of a postcard in an envelope when he felt one.

What could they be? Who could they be from?

Sherlock guarded them jealously. Acting blasé about them but disappearing into her room not long after one arrived.

It took him almost four months after the first one had arrived for John to find out just what was with the enveloped and postcards. And it was during the next 'drugs bust'.

Sally had taken it too far.

John knew this. And from the look on Lestrade's face Sally would be getting a talking to when they left.

She had disappeared into Sherlock's room a few minutes earlier and had come out with a wooden box, that, going by the state of the lock she had clearly pried open.

Sherlock would not tolerate that. He knew that she was only humouring the Yard with their almost monthly raids on the flat and she could easily make a complaint (or heaven forbid talk to Mycroft) to have them stopped.

Sally weaved her way around the various officers who were busy peering into the fridge and microwave (more out of curiosity to see what Sherlock was up to than to actually find anything) and put the box down on the table beside John's laptop and flung the lid wide.

"Sally really-" Lestrade began but stopped. When she tipped the box onto its side. Postcards from all over the world fell out. Some left blank, some filled out and signed.

All from a 'J.B'.

He scanned his eye over some of the messages scrawled on the back, his conscience lashing out at him the whole time but his curiosity refusing to allow him to look away.

Still alive – J.B, read one.

You would have done better – J.B, read another.

Remember the Seine? – J.B, read one from Paris.

And so they went on. Some reading very generically. "Wish you were here" and the like. While others were that much more personal. Touching on things that hinted at shared experiences. "You'd love the view", "I remembered this time!".

There was never a message longer than a sentence.

But it wasn't just postcards.

Photos were strewn across the table too.

Despite his rising anger at Sally who had really taken it too far he could not resist peering closer at the images.

They had Sherlock in them. A smiling, tanned, slightly fleshier (definitely nearer a healthier weight anyway) and read headed Sherlock. And were those coloured contacts in her eyes?

And next to her was a man, blue eyed, blonde haired and muscular, maybe in his late thirties.

"What the-" Sally spread some more out onto the table. Turning them the right way round and lining them up.

They were the kind of pictures you would find of any happy couple who had been on holiday together.

Sherlock seemed so…happy.

Most of the images had her and this man in them, both with their arms around each other and smiling into a camera. Some had obviously been taken by the man holding the camera stretch out in front of them while others had been taken maybe by an obliging passer-by.

He recognised the landmarks most of the pictures.

Paris, Rome, Malta and even London.

John felt a surge of jealousy at her apparent closeness to the stranger in the photos.

The front door banging shut and steps on the stairs drew John from his thoughts and he only had the time to exchange a slightly panicked and guilty look with Greg before facing the door as Sherlock swept into the room.

Her keen – coloured contact free eyes – swept the room, taking in everything before focusing on the broken box and the ex-contents of said box that was now strewn over the table.

"Who's the man, freak?" Sally's sharper than usual tone broke the silence and John could tell that she was trying to cover up her own guilt – who knew she could actually feel the emotion – at peering into something no meant for her. John caught some of the officers stop in their 'search' to watch the drama that was unfolding instead.

Hardly professional, John thought.

Sherlock walked over to the table and John backed away to give her room as she began to carefully and meticulously pack the pictures and postcards back into the box.

"No one," she answered flatly.

"Sure doesn't look like no-one," Sally shot back, "Pick him up while you were dead did you?"

John had never in his life struck a woman but he was tempted at that moment.

His heart turned to lead as he watched Sherlock almost sadly study the jimmied lock on the box – it really beautiful, he realised now, with carved out images upon the lid and sides – and then closed it gently and lifted it.

"Let yourself out Lestrade," she spoke coldly as she walked away from them, "You will find that the evidence never left the Yard. It was the mother's cousin. Good day,"

Silence fell as she walked through the kitchen and out of sight and they heard her bedroom door close.

"We're done here," Greg called and like a flock of birds the officers moved as one to the door and clomped down the stairs.

"Sally, out!" Greg sapped, "You and I will be having words back at the Yard,"

Sally left without a word.

John looked towards where Sherlock had vanished and then at Greg.

What was he supposed to say.

He couldn't like the Sherlock her knew to the healthy and to all appearances happy woman of the photos.

"Tell Sherlock I'm…" Greg trailed off.

John scoffed inwardly. Yeah, it was always like that. No one quite knew how to apologise to Sherlock.

"Hell. Tell her I'll talk to her later,"

John nodded and then he was the only one left in the living room.

Who was J.B?


	5. Bond at the Yard

**I do not own Sherlock or James Bond**

**Bond at the Yard**

Greg held a pen in each hand, between his thumb and forefinger, flicking them. The clicking of them hitting off each other was the only noise to be herd in his office, the noisier hubbub of the department muted by the door.

It was late. Almost half past midnight but as always the department never slept and it was as busy as if it were twelve noon. Unfortunately criminals didn't just work nine to five.

Growing tired of his own company he dropped the pens to the table with a clatter and stalked to his office door.

He opened it and just stood for a second and took in the bustling office and sighed inwardly when Sally took that moment to glance up from her desk. She stood, pushing her rolling chair back with such force from the table he was surprised both she and it didn't go flying into the wall behind her.

She came over to him.

"Where is she then?" she asked.

Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sally didn't like Sherlock, never had and never would – even after her 'resurrection' – and resented the fact that he relied on her so much. But the fact was that Sherlock was good at what she did. What she could do put bad people away and kept London safe. And Sally was just being petty not to even acknowledge this.

"It's been over an hour," she told him when he didn't answer her immediately.

She was right. It had been over an hour – coming up in two now – since he had called her, and, for once, received answer. This worried him. It had never mattered what drama of Anderson and Donvovan making at happened at the last crime scene Sherlock would always answer his calls. It had never occurred to him that she wouldn't pick up.

He remembered with a cold heart the number of times after her 'death' he had instinctively gone for his mobile to bring her in on a case to remember she wasn't there just as he went to press 'dial'.

But since her return she had picked up where she had left off and never ignored his 'summons' as she liked to call them.

Until now.

He tried her mobile again and when it rang through to voicemail for the second time he left a rambling message and called John.

No, he didn't know where she was.

Yes, he was sure she had her phone with her – this was Sherlock after-all when did she ever NOT have her phone.

No, he wasn't at the flat he was working as a locum at the hospital.

Yes, he got off work in an hour and he could be at the Yard within two.

And that was how things were left.

He saw the short, stocky frame of John at the other end of the room and waved him over, he weaved through the desks to the office door.

"Any luck?" John yawned and Greg felt more than a little guilty for dragging the man here after what had obviously been a long day.

"None. Have you heard from her?"

"Haven't seen her since this morning,"

"You have no idea where she could be?" Greg was almost begging now.

They had five hours until they could no longer hold the suspect.

They needed something. Anything.

Greg's phone rang and he nearly tripped over himself to get back into his office to pick up the handset.

"Lestrade," he barked down the mouthpiece.

"Lestrade, there is no way for me to describe how bad your timing is right now," Sherlock's voice sent him weak with relief and he sagged into his seat.

"Sherlock, where are you?" the mention of Sherlock's name drew John and Sally into his office, both frowning, "We need you here,"

"I'm busy Lestrade,"

Busy?

She had never been too 'busy' to help.

"We need you Sherlock," he tried again, not knowing what to say to this new line from Sherlock.

There was a heavy sigh from her end and he heard a rustle and then mumbling. Who was she with? Greg knew when a phone was being pressed to something to muffle sound. Another new thing from Sherlock.

"Do I at least have the time to go to Baker Street first?" she asked after a few more seconds of mumbling.

"No Sherlock. The suspect gets let out at six if we don't have anything to hold him. I need you to take a look at the file,"

"Very well. I shall be half an hour,"

He hung up the phone with a relied filled 'thank you' and then frowned

Busy?

Greg's nerves were stretching to their limits.

Half an hour had come and gone and still there was no sign of Sherlock.

She was now fifteen minutes later than she said she would be.

With each minute that ticked by Greg saw the cell door getting wider and so in an act of desperation he had split up the case file and had several of his team and Dimmock (who Greg was pretty sure was wishing he hadn't come into work early)going through the pictures and interviews and Anderson was moodily studying the forensic reports once again.

A wave of whispering and shifting drew his attention from the document he was studying and he looked up at the door to see a woman and a man entering. They looked more like they were ready for a night at the Oscars than to be found at Scotland Yard.

He scanned the woman and his eyes froze on the familiar face.

Sherlock.

Her dark locks were piled high on her head, lip-stick highlighted her usually pale lips and her face – pale and blemish free even without make-up – had the slightest touch of make-up to it, highlighting her cheek bones and eyes.

He lowered his eyes and he could feel them widen.

A flowing gown of green lace covered her from shoulders too feet. Showing not the barest hint of cleavage but making up for it by the way it hugged her waist and hips.

She looked beautiful. Nothing at all like the scrawny child who had knocked on his office door all those years ago, or the skinny waif she appeared to be at crime scenes.

He tore his eyes away from her to study her companion and once again his mind stuttered.

The man's uniform identified him as Navy, and he walked through the mass of tables and people with a straight back, not looking to either side as he leaned in low to Sherlock's ear and whispered something to her.

Sherlock nodded her head and met Greg's eye, not speaking until they came to a stop in front of him.

"I believe you have a file for me to examine, Lestrade," she spoke softly and held out her hand for the file.

"Ah, yes," Greg looked over her shoulder at the various desks to see just where the different pieces of the file had wound up.

"Just a minute, Sherlock,"

He weaves past Sherlock and her companion – his mind rebels against the word 'date' – and makes quick work of retrieving the innards of the file. Most of the people he was snatching the leafs of paper for didn't even notice as they were to bust staring at Sherlock and Dimmock even had his mouth open and was looking as though he had never seen a woman before.

The file all together once more he handed it to Sherlock who walked into his office and sat behind the desk.

The stranger followed her and instead of taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite the desk he crouched next to her seat, winding and arm around the back of her waist.

Just who was this man?

He watched them closely and ignored the growing crowd that was gathering around him as 'passers-by' loitered behind him.

Sherlock was mumbling to herself as she scanned the data, charts, numbers, photo's, interviews. Taking them into her brain and adding things together to build a picture that no one else could usually see until it was pointed out to them – or at least he hoped that was the case this time.

The man did not have that look of impatience on his face that Greg knew that even he was guilty of sporting on occasion – as though Sherlock was some machine that needed fixing if she couldn't spit out the answer quick enough. No he had a small smile on his face, as his eyes remained fixed on Sherlock.

Who was he?

His attention was finally drawn from the couple when he heard John – who had gone to retrieve some coffee – return. The doctor was pushing his way through the crowd of the Yards finest and finally stopped as he came between Greg and Sally – where had Sally came from?

"Who's the bloke?" Sally asked John who was staring just as dumb struck into the office as Greg knew he had been only seconds ago.

Sally spoke just louder than a whisper and he knew that Sherlock and the stranger would have heard, but neither of them gave any indication of it and Sherlock just kept flicking through the file while the man gazed at her with something akin to adoration in his eyes.

"No idea," John sounded shocked.

"The victim was definitely murdered," Sherlock announced suddenly, leaving the papers strewn across his already messy desk as she stood with the help of the stranger - who had immediately straightened when she began to move.

She came over to him and Greg was suddenly aware of the crowd dispersing as quickly as they could and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in confusion as her eyes remained focused on the bustling people behind him. Some things about Sherlock never changed and apparently some of the more basic human traits still eluded her.

She shook her head and focused on him once more after nodding her head at John – he should have remembered that things still weren't back to 'normal' with them since Sherlock's return from the dead - before looking at him, the stranger stood at her shoulder, hands behind his back.

Greg listened in shock as Sherlock explained that the whole case against the suspect could be proved by the victim's shoes and the suspect's shirt.

"Now, if your need of my skills will not encroach upon any more of my time, I would like to get make to my evening,"

Her evening?

It was nearly three in the morning, just what was she planning on –

Wait. Had the stranger just taken her hand? And she wasn't objecting?

He glanced to John whose eyes looked like they were about to pop from his head.

He bet that the other man was really starting to wish he hadn't been quite so stubborn about giving Sherlock the silent treatment.

Sally snorted and Greg just knew she was about to say something to regret.

"Since when do you have a life outside of dead bodies, freak?"

The stranger stepped forward and in one graceful movement Sherlock was tucked behind him – like he was trying to protect her from some sort of physical attack. He was scowling at Sally and had opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock running a hand up his arm seemed to stop him.

Seeing Sherlock being so…intimate with another was just too strange for words.

Greg felt almost sad that the stranger hadn't spoken, he would have loved to hear what he was going to say. But as it stood he would be having a word with Sally himself once Sherlock was gone.

"Lestrade," she looked at him, "Sally," she looked at Sally and then paused before looking to John, "John. Goodnight,"

Greg watched as her hand snaked the rest of the way down the man's arm before her fingers threaded with his.

She tugged at the stranger and together they left.

Silence filled the room for a second before ever tongue in the place seemed to be going.

Greg could feel the headache starting.


End file.
